Looks Like a Good Day
by whitchry9
Summary: Written for a prompt requesting John with early onset dementia, and how both he and Sherlock react to it. Especially when John becomes someone less than himself, which is heartbreaking to watch. Rated for language and feels. 7 chapters.
1. Chapter 1

John wasn't concerned when, one day after finishing his tea and reading the newspaper, he passed out when he got up.

"Must have been too quick," he said a moment later, when he was lucid. "I suppose I'm not as young as I used to be."

Sherlock, who'd rushed to John's side when he heard the thump, snorted. "As ever, you state the obvious."

John grinned wickedly. "Shut up. Neither are you."

Sherlock's grin faded. "Are you sure you're fine though? Syncope can be a symptom of a number of different things, including-"

"Sherlock," John said gently. "I got up rather quickly. There's nothing wrong me with that going more slowly won't fix."

Sherlock frowned, but nodded.

Still, he kept a close eye on John every time he got up from the couch for the next couple of weeks.

* * *

John didn't pass out as he got up in the next few weeks, but he did arrive home from shopping with the beginnings of a bruise on his forehead.

"Had a row with the chip and pin machine," he told Sherlock. "It definitely won."

Sherlock frowned. Lies.

But he let it go.

And he let it go when John forgot to get milk.

And then the next week when he forgot it again. And again.

(The fourth week would have been the last straw, but he remembered it then.)

And he let it go when John seemed unable to remember where they kept the tea cups. (It was early after all, just pushing 5am, and Sherlock had a habit of moving them.)

And Sherlock let it go when John broke up with his latest girlfriend (he claimed, Sherlock could tell she broke up with him) because there wasn't any emotion in it.

* * *

When they ended up in A&E because John had fallen over nothing ("It was a kerb, Sherlock," John had insisted), fearing a broken wrist, Sherlock called the doctor. He was done with letting things go. Things had gone on long enough.

He threw the card with the appointment date and time at John back at the flat, with a diagnosis of a bad bruise. John sighed, but knew there was no point in fighting it. Sherlock would ensure he got there, whether it was of his own volition, or against his will.

And he'd prefer _not _to be drugged in all honesty.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was having difficulty listening. He'd been the one to insist on the appointment, and the only reason John had gone along with it was because Sherlock had been in a foul mood all week.

"I'd like to send you to a neurologist."

"Why?" Sherlock snarled.

"A neurologist specializes in the brain, and I think-"

"Of course neurologists specialize in the brain, I'm not an idiot, and neither is he. _Why_ are you sending him?"

"Sherlock," John hissed.

The doctor waved a hand. "It's alright. I believe that John may have some sort of brain injury or condition, and I know that it would be better for him to be seen by a neurologist."

Sherlock scowled and tucked his knees up under his chin, ignoring John's glares as he finished conversing with the doctor.

They were given an appointment the next week, a fact which made Sherlock suspect Mycroft's involvement.

(When Sherlock texted him, and Mycroft phoned back, he declined any involvement. Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted to believe he was lying, or face what the other option meant.)

* * *

They sent John for a CT, and then an MRI, and Sherlock waited impatiently for the whole thing. If there was anything he hated more than being the patient himself, it was when John was the patient.

They had to wait while the neurologist read the films. He was adequate, Sherlock had already done extensive background research on him. He'd been in the top third of his class and had published a number of papers in the last few years, nothing groundbreaking, but his style of writing was one Sherlock could respect. He was divorced with a teenaged daughter. Their relationship was typical.

Sherlock deemed him acceptable to be treating John.

He also liked that the man didn't beat around the bush.

After brief introductions, and listening to Sherlock's concerns, as well as John listing off the symptoms he'd noticed, the man sat across from them and removed his glasses.

"John, I suspect you most likely have Binswanger's disease. It's a form of dementia, as I'm sure you're aware. We'll need to do another test to be sure, a SPECT scan, which is available in London thankfully. It helps to differentiate between Alzheimer's and..."

He continued droning on but Sherlock had stopped listening.

He could only look at John as he listened, and nodded occasionally. Look at John's head, hoping to see through his skull to his brain and find the parts that were broken to fix.

Why hadn't he become a doctor?

_(Because he'd kill all his patients before they made it to the operating room out of sheer agony of dealing with their stupidity.)_

Why couldn't he fix this?

_(There was no way to fix this.)_

He could damn well try.


	3. Chapter 3

The first week after John's diagnosis (which was confirmed by the SPECT scan, much to Sherlock's disappointment) John tried to return to normal life while Sherlock threw himself into research.

He read books like they were oxygen, scoured the web for medical journal articles, absorbed every bit of information he could find about dementia.

Lestrade tried to call him in for a case, but Sherlock took one look at the crime scene photos, declared it was nothing over a five, and suggested they look into the secret love child.

Lestrade shook his head, but left.

John only sighed, like he'd been doing all day, all week it seemed like, ever since Sherlock had declared the doctors and researchers must have missed something.

His tolerance waned though, as it always did, and at the end of the week, when Sherlock tried to order copies of every medical journal in the world, John put his foot down.

"No Sherlock. This is my brain. This is my life. Even if you did come up with some sort of experimental cure, I would not let you use me as your guinea pig."

When Sherlock tried to protest, John continued.

"You are not going to fix me Sherlock. You can't solve this. So stop this. Please. Stop trying to make it go away, because it's not going to. I just want... I want for us to be normal for as long as possible. So can we do that? You go back to taking some cases, and shooting the wall, and I'll go back to being exasperated, and we'll chase after criminals, and everything will be right side up in the world again."

Sherlock only nodded.

They both knew chasing after criminals wouldn't be for too much longer.

* * *

Changes were slow, gradual, like they both knew it would happen, but still unexpected.

They clumsiness remained, and Sherlock suspected it would only get worse as time went on. There were other changes too, but ones that weren't as obvious to look at him. But for Sherlock, who lived with him, they were very obvious indeed.

Timelines could only be estimates. Sure, sometimes patients lived up to ten years after the diagnosis, but that wasn't the norm. John may only live for five more years, and who knew what the quality of those years would be.

Because even if John wasn't dead, he certainly wasn't the same.


	4. Chapter 4

"You don't have to take care of me you know," John said wearily.

Sherlock put down the pipette he was holding.

"John, I-"

"Sherlock, we both know you have far better things to do than look after me as my mind slowly degrades. You barely have tolerance for Lestrade. What makes you think you can take care of me?"

Sherlock looked at him blankly. The thought had never even crossed his mind. Sure, he'd thought about the care John would need, how one day it might be too much for him alone, and that he might have to ask Mycroft for help, but it had never occurred to him that John could be put in an institution.

"I never entertained the notion that I wouldn't, John," he replied honestly.

John laughed harshly. "Seriously?"

Sherlock shifted on the stool. "No one else would be competent enough to take care of you," he noted, picking up the pipette, and attempting to focus on his experiment. After all, he had an image to maintain, even if John could see through it.

"You may change your mind," John said softly.

Sherlock winced as bubbles filled the tip, a result of him being hasty. Shouldn't he be able to multitask properly?

"I don't think so," he replied, placing the experiment aside in favour of his violin.

John nodded after a few minutes.

Sherlock played for him.

* * *

They were both far too painfully aware of the unfairness of life.

Sherlock didn't mention it as long as John didn't.

"Fuck!" John spat, throwing himself out of the chair and pacing around the room. "It's not fucking fair. I am way too young for this. I looked up the prevalence. It's rare, even in older people, so for me to get it is just shitty. It's not fair!" he bellowed, kicking over a stack of Sherlock's books that were piled precariously along his path.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He was well aware it wasn't fair. But he also knew that telling John that right now would not be helpful.

John needed time to cool off.

It hurt not knowing whether this was the reaction to receiving such a diagnosis, or if it was the personality changes already starting, the mood swings that would become more frequent, and perhaps even stop being temporary and move to being permanent.

Sherlock wasn't sure if he could take it. And he hated himself for not knowing, hated that he was even thinking that he couldn't handle John's care. He knew it was foolish, because at some point, even he wouldn't be able to care for John, but the guilt was still crushing.


	5. Chapter 5

"Lestrade's got a case for us John!" Sherlock burst into the flat, calling out loudly. "I've just come from the morgue, where I was performing an experiment on tongues, you know the one, when he called. It's shaping up to be rather interesting, the classic locked room murder. It's at least an eight. Are you coming?"

John hadn't come to see what he was shouting about, which was unusual.

Sherlock sighed, but leaped up the stairs.

John was sitting on his bed, looking unimpressed.

"Case John," Sherlock said breathlessly.

John's expression didn't change.

"Don't you want to come?"

John shook his head. "Not really."

"But..." Sherlock began. "You love to come on cases with me."

John scrunched up his face. "Do I?"

Sherlock nodded. "You told me once, when you were drunk, that it's the only time you feel really alive. When we're running through the streets of London, breaking laws, and getting shot at."

"Did I." John shrugged, but got up off the bed. "Alright then."

John was silent in the cab.

Sherlock was busy backdating symptoms, adding new ones to the list. Loss of interest in things that previously excited him. It was a symptom of the disease itself, and a symptom of another symptom, depression. He'd have to watch carefully to determine which it was.

* * *

Sherlock was disappointed that John didn't once utter 'brilliant' or 'amazing' or even 'fantastic' when Sherlock rattled off his deductions.

Lestrade seemed confused, but became distracted when Sherlock pointed out blood splatters that the forensic team had missed. (He coughed in Anderson's direction, but John only looked at the floor.)

There was no post case buzz that night, no going out for dinner, no chases.

They went back to the flat, and Sherlock consulted his extensive notes, adding some new ones with a heavy heart.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock awoke with a start, sensing someone staring at him. It was John.

"Who the hell are you," he said, dead calm, and in a voice barely above a whisper.

Sherlock's heart dropped, partly at the sight of the gun pointed at him, but mostly because _John didn't recognize him._ John didn't remember who he was. And now he was terrified, and holding a gun. Things could go very wrong, very quickly.

"John," Sherlock said slowly. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm your friend. We live together here, in this flat. 221B Baker Street, remember? Mrs Hudson is our landlady. We're friends John. No one is going to hurt you." He eased his hands up to show they were empty. "We live here together. It's frightening to forget things, but you don't need to point the gun at me."

John's face contorted. Sherlock could see the internal struggle, John not recognizing the man in front of him, possibly thinking he was a genuine threat, or at least someone unknown, and therefore dangerous. He must have been able to see some reason in Sherlock's explanation, because he lowered the gun.

"That's great John," Sherlock said encouragingly. "Now, unload the gun. You remember how to do it, right? You were in the army."

John looked at the gun, like he'd forgotten he was holding it. He looked back up at Sherlock, and his expression was so mournful that Sherlock could hardly bear to see it.

His hands moved around the gun, shaking slightly.

John looked down, and seemed surprised to see that he'd indeed unloaded the gun.

"That's great John. Now put it down," Sherlock urged.

John hesitated, but obeyed, setting both parts down on the table gently, making only the slightest of sounds. They were thunderous to Sherlock in the otherwise silent room.

He couldn't hear what John was thinking.

"Would you like some tea?" he asked John.

John looked up at him wearily, and nodded, collapsing into the chair across from him.

"I'll make some tea, alright. You just sit there and rest for a moment."

John didn't say anything, but didn't make any movement when Sherlock picked up the gun. It would need to be removed from the premises as soon as possible.

Which likely meant that one or more of Mycroft's men were already on their way.

Sherlock moved around the kitchen quietly, not wanting to make any sudden noise to startle John, who was still sitting in the chair. He hadn't moved other than to shift slightly, and Sherlock was thankful for that.

He made two cups, knowing that they would not be the last of the day, nor were they the first.

He handed John his tea, served in his favourite mug, just the way he liked it. (Sherlock knew both, knew a whole lot more than he let on, but figured this was hardly time for telling John that.)

John accepted it, and waited for Sherlock to sit down in his own chair to speak.

"Oh my god Sherlock. I don't know-" his voice cracked. "I don't know what I was thinking. I _wasn't _thinking. I'm so sorry. I was pointing a gun at you for christ's sake. I could have _shot_ you."

His distress was apparent. Sherlock really couldn't handle any more of that in one day.

"It's quite alright John. It must be frightening," he added in what he hoped was a reassuring voice. "And I should have known better than to keep weapons in the flat."

John laughed, but it was hollow. "Something must be wrong. Sherlock Holmes admitting he should have known better? Tell me the world's not ending, please, because I'm not sure."

Sherlock attempted a smile. "I assure you, it's not. But considering your condition, I should have taken precautions-"

"Sod my 'condition'," John snorted. "Call it what it is."

Sherlock had opened his mouth to object when John continued.

"Hell," he said glumly, tracing the rim of his mug with a finger.

Sherlock closed his mouth.


	7. Chapter 7

"I know you, don't I?" John asked one morning.

They'd fallen asleep curled around each other, Sherlock on the outside, protecting John from the harshness of the world. (Because last night it had been very harsh indeed.)

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed. He hoped John wouldn't notice the hint of sadness in his voice.

"And I like you," he said.

"Also true."

John was silent for a moment.

"That's nice. This is nice, isn't it?"

"Yes John. That it is."

"Sorry, what's your name again?"

"Sherlock," he whispered. "My name is Sherlock."

"Well. Good morning Sherlock. It looks like it's going to be a good day."

Sherlock nodded. That it did.


End file.
